


Always

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, not a happy fic, possibly bittersweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Hamish Watson-Holmes and I never knew my father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fic. Not beta'd, because I can't find a beta (help?). Let me know if you find any glaring mistakes.

I remember when at the age of three I asked my dad where father was. He got this immense look of pain and grief in his eyes and I immediately regretted asking him. I turned away and was about to start playing with my Lego again, when dad grabbed my chubby little arm and pulled me into his lap. He stood up, supporting my weight on one arm and stroking my cheek with the other. He ran his fingers through my hair and looked into my eyes with a searching gaze. His face softened, as if he found something he might’ve lost in them.

“Your father loves you,” he said. “Your father loves you very, very much. You hear that?” I nodded, not knowing whether he needed me to say anything. “He can’t be with you, but he’s always looking after you. He always will be. Remember that.”

And then he said something that has stayed with me ever since; something I’ve held onto for many years to come. He caressed my hair again, running his fingers through the short, dark curls.

“You’re so much like him.”

I remember thinking my father must be a very special person.

 

-//-

 

Just after I turned five, my dad pulled me into his lap and explained that I had been born into this world under very special circumstances. I thought he was going to tell me I was born in the jungle or something, and then almost eaten by tiger. Dad always told me I got my vivid imagination from my father.

“You father had a big heart,” he began. “And he was... the most amazing person that ever lived on this planet. But no matter how big his heart was, or how amazing he was, two men... we couldn’t have you like other couples do. So another lady helped us.”

He looked at me to make sure I’d understood what he’s said so far. I admit, my understanding of human reproduction was severely lacking at the age of five. “Like Colin and his daddies?” Dad smiled at me and nodded. Colin was a friend of mine from nursery and he too had two daddies. I envied him sometimes.

“Yes, just like Colin and his daddies,” he agreed. “When it was time for you to be born, your father and I were in the middle of a case...” He paused for a second, gathering his thoughts. “Your father was so happy when he heard the news. For a few moments there was nothing else that mattered to him and that’s when...”

And then my dad cried. His tears spilled onto the top of my head, one by one. He held my so tight, rocking us back and forth, as great big sobs tore his lungs apart. I hugged him back as tightly as I could, wishing I knew what made my dad so sad. I wished I knew how to make him stop being sad.

My father gave me life without knowing me. He died when I lived. I will always be grateful, for he brought me into this world. I will always love him for that.

When dad stopped crying, I felt confused. Not knowing what to do, I asked the only question that came to me.

“Father’s in heaven?”

Dad blinked at me through his tears and smiled. “Yes.” He hugged me close. “He’s the most beautiful angel there ever was.”

I thought I was the luckiest boy alive to have my own angel.

 

-//-

 

When I started school I made sure all of my friends knew I had the best father in the world. A father who always had time for me and who always looked after me. I could turn to him at any time of the day and he’d always be there for me, even if it was only in my own head.

I constantly carried his photo with me. Grandmother once gave it to me when I was visiting her with dad. It was a small photograph that she kept in a silver frame on the mantelpiece. I never noticed it was there before, but as soon as I did I could not look away. Dad has shown me photos of him before, so many, and I don’t know why this one captured me like it did. He looked so happy.

As I gazed up at the photograph of my father, grandmother came up behind me and patted my hair affectionately. She reached out and grabbed the frame from the mantelpiece, bringing it closer to me. She opened the back and took out the photograph.

“Your dad took this just after they found out about you,” she said as she handed it to me.

“Father is an angel,” I told her as a stared at the photograph. I felt proud. My father was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.

 

-//-

 

Whenever dad had to work late or go to a medical conference or something, I’d stay with Uncle Greg. I used to stay with Mrs Hudson until I was about six, until she passed away, and after that I insisted on staying with the cool uncle who was a detective like my father. Even when I got older and learned how to take care of myself, I’d still stay at his place whenever I got the opportunity. He would tell me stories about my parents, stories about my father. If I had a question he knew the answer to, he would always tell me. He never hid anything from me.

“Your parents made perfect partners,” he told me once. A look of pride crossed his face, even though I knew they always brought him trouble. “They always looked out for each other, sometimes to the point where it drove me and half the Yard insane. They were completely devoted to each other, trusted each other with everything they had. I haven’t seen anything like it since. Like two halves of a whole.”

A sad smile crossed his lips.

“They were so smitten. From the very first case. Everyone knew, it was so obvious.” He laughed. “Obvious. To everyone, but them. Those two idiots lived together for years, did everything together, in love, for years before either of them had the guts to admit to anything. It took Sherlock’s stupid stunt to wake them up.”

I knew my father faked his death once. Dad explained why he did so, but I still felt anger whenever I thought about it. Not at father, no, at the man who forced him to do it. Although, frankly, I was glad to hear father got punched several times when he returned.

“Your father was the centre of attention wherever he went. His brilliance, his genius, was like a blinding light you could not look away from.” Uncle Greg ran a hand through his thinning hair. “All of this was always directed at John, only at John. ‘A conductor of light’ is what he called him, I think.”

It took me a few years to gather enough courage to ask the one question I’ve always wanted to ask. I never dared to ask my dad, maybe because I was afraid of the answer he’d give me.

“Does he blame me for losing him?”

His head snapped up and he looked at me with such shock written all over his face; I will never forget that look. I think he wasn’t expecting me to blurt out something like this over dinner. He set down his knife and fork, and rose from his chair. He walked over to me and sat in the chair next to me.

“Has John said anything to make you believe this?”

His disbelief was clearly evident in his voice and I immediately regretted asking him. But I had to know.

“No,” I said, hesitating for a moment. “No, he hasn’t said anything. I just thought... I thought a small part of him blames me for what happened.” I looked up at Uncle Greg, at his frown, and couldn’t help blurting out the question again. “Does he?”

He sighed.

“Hamish, there’s something you need to understand. John lost half of his soul when your father died. To be honest, we all thought he would die with him. Do you know what kept him alive?”

I was afraid to breathe.

“You.”

His face became a blurry mess of colours and odd shapes, as tears welled up in my eyes.

“The night Sherlock...” He stopped and cleared his throat. “When Mycroft and I arrived at the hospital, we found John sitting out in the hallway. He didn’t acknowledge our presence, just stared straight ahead. To this day, I don’t even know if he truly realised we were there. He just kept staring at the wall, tears running down his face, blood all over him... It was the first time I have ever seen John cry.”

He paused again and took a sip of his drink. I felt his gaze on me and I raised my eyes to meet his. I nodded for him to continue, not trusting my voice just yet. My dad had my father’s blood all over him.

“Both Mycroft and I tried to get through to him, but he just... sat there. Staring at the wall, whispering Sherlock’s name over and over again.”

I realised, possibly for the very first time, that I would never get to call him that. I would never get to jokingly call him Sherlock, imitating my dad irritated or affectionate tone as he spoke his name. I would never get to call him father.

Uncle Gred touched my arm gently. “I lost you there for a moment.”

“ ’m fine,” I sniffed. I don’t think I sounded particularly certain. “I’m fine.” I was anything but fine, we both knew it. But I needed to know this story, to hear of the day my father died. I knew dad would never be able to tell me.

“Hamish, are you sure you want to talk about it today?” he asked. I simply nodded. He nodded back and leaned back in his chair. “We tried to get through to him,” he started again. “Mycroft sat down next to him and talked, I can’t even remember what he said. Anything to make your dad snap out of it. Nothing worked, he just kept staring ahead and repeating Sherlock’s name. Then suddenly he got up, ran to the nearest nurse and demanded they let him see Sherlock.”

Uncle Greg fell silent for a moment.

“He refused to believe he was dead.”

He looked at me and a sad smile crossed his lips. “Can you blame him?”

I shook my head.

“John went into denial. He didn’t trust me or Mycroft, or any of the doctors, to tell him the truth. They finally let him in to see his body.” Uncle Greg paused again. I could see how difficult it was for him even after so many years. “He stayed in there for so long. So long... we were beginning to fear for his life. He was so close to the edge. Closer than I’d ever seen him before.”

My heart ached for my dad. I don’t think anyone truly understood the pain of losing a loved one twice. Uncle Greg told me how they’d finally gone in there and found my dad sitting by my father’s side. How he’d held one of his hands, his face buried in his tousled hair. The memory brought tears to Uncle Greg’s eyes.

It was Uncle Mycroft that finally stepped up to my dad and laid a hand on his shoulder. Dad didn’t notice at first, but then he raised his head slowly and had looked expectantly at my father’s face – hoping it was his hand. Hoping he was right. Hoping it was a magic trick again. His face fell when he realised it wasn’t Sherlock’s hand and he turned to look at Uncle Mycroft.

“He told John he needed some time alone with his brother. I think it finally sunk in that Sherlock was gone, really gone, and not only for him. For everyone.” Uncle Greg’s voice broke on the last word. He cleared his throat. “I took John out of the room, left Mycroft to say goodbye. John just... he went back to staring at the wall and stayed perfectly still and silent. He just... stood there. And then a nurse appeared, with a bundle of blankets in her arms,” he smiled. “We completely forgot it was the same hospital you were born in.” He looked straight into my eyes. “She said the only words that got through to John that night.” He paused. “She said: your son needs his dad.”

I released  my breath, which I wasn’t aware I was holding, with a sob.

“John took you in his arms and held you like you were the most fragile thing in the world. He looked at you with such awe and love. This was the second and last time I’ve seen John cry, and it was from something completely different from grief.”

He covered my hand with his own.

“That’s when I knew you’d save him.”

 

-//-

 

A few years later we all gathered for a Christmas dinner at Baker Street; grandmother, Uncle Mycroft with his wife, Uncle Greg with Auntie Molly, Auntie Harry with her partner, me and dad. Every other year me and dad would spend Christmas at my grandmother’s house in Sussex, but we never stayed for too long. Dad said once he and father planned retiring there. Father wanted to keep bees in the garden.

Dad always said that he and Uncle Mycroft didn’t get on spectacularly well before my father’s death, although apparently it was nothing compared to the sibling rivalry between my father and his older brother. Whatever differences they once had were long forgotten, though Uncle Greg once told me it was because Uncle Mycroft wanted to keep a really close eye on his only nephew. I didn’t really care and even though he could be quite intimidating, he was still part of the family.

We sat at the dinner table, stuffed with the turkey dad prepared, talking memories. It always became apparent, especially on occasions like these, that the only thing these people really had in common was me and my father. I didn’t mind, not at all. I learned so much about my father during those occasions.

“Whenever I came back from university during a break he corrected my textbooks in red ink.” Uncle Mycroft was sharing his stories of my father as a young boy and everyone laughed.

“Oh, believe me, he still did that even when he was nearing forty,” dad chimed in.

“He used to correct police reports as well. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff he managed to squeeze into the margins,” Uncle Greg laughed.

The evening went on, and everyone shared their memories; some making us all laugh, some of them quieting us down. After a while dad rose from his chair, made a quick excuse and left the kitchen. The discussions around the table were brought to an abrupt end, as everyone watched him as he retreated to his room. Everyone then turned to me and I didn’t know what to say. I slowly got up from the table.

“I’ll go after him.”

I found him sitting on the bed in his bedroom; their bedroom. Their shared it for such a short time.

“Dad, are you all right?” I asked, walking up to him. He nodded slowly without looking up at me. I sat down next to him and waited. I knew if he wanted to talk to me, he would. After a minute or so my eyes were drawn to his hand, resting in his lap. I noticed he was holding something, caressing it slowly with his fingers. I reached out and gently pried his fingers apart. In the middle of his left hand lay a pair of dog tags on a simple steel chain that I’ve seen him wear for as long as I can remember.

“It’s one of the few things I still have of him,” he whispered quietly. He turned over one of the tags, so that I could read what was engraved on them. Sherlock Holmes. They were my father’s.

“You never said they were his.”

“He still has mine,” he said before I could ask. He placed the tags in my hand before I had the chance to ask permission to hold them. They were warm against my skin and wanted to believe that they still held my father’s warmth. That it held the combined warmth of both of them.

“We never got married, but we exchanged these.”

He covered my hand with his and we held my father between us.

“He abhorred the idea of marriage, but he agreed that some sort of gesture was required. How did he put it? To formalise our exchange of ownership of one another.” I must have pulled a face, because dad laughed softly when he looked at me. If I close my eyes and try hard enough, I can still his laugh. “It was probably the most romantic thing your father ever said to me.”

He stayed silent for a few moments, looking at our joined hands.

“He knew me so well. At times better than I knew myself.”

“Did you know him just as well?” I asked. Dad smiled.

“Your father was always something of a mystery to me. There were times when I could read him like an open book. But even after so many years together he kept me guessing. He kept being so brilliant.”

I couldn’t help but smile with him, wishing I could share those memories with him. Wishing I had been given a chance to solve the mystery of Sherlock Holmes.

”He insisted he didn’t experience any true feelings or emotions,” he said. “But that was utter nonsense. He just kept them buried deep inside him. I think we were the only ones that ever got through.”

“Even his feelings for you?”

“Oh, especially for me. We both made that mistake. We kept everything to ourselves, denying the existence of anything more than friendship, out of fear of...” He sighed. “I don’t know what we feared. When I finally began to piece together my feeling for your father, he disappeared for...” He paused for moment and took a deep breath. “He was gone for three years.”

I winced at his words. I heard enough stories from Mrs Hudson, Uncle Greg and grandmother to know what my dad went through. I never really heard any stories from my father’s side of things, but I had a feeling it wasn’t something my parents ever discussed at length. Some memories were best forgotten.

“When he got back I punched him, several times actually. Then I kissed him and the world felt right again. I felt whole.” He smiled at me suddenly. “It was his idea to have you."

I couldn’t help but smile back at him. That made me feel even closer to my father; it filled my chest with indescribable warmth.

“You could imagine my surprise when he suggested it. You should have seen the look on Mycroft’s face.”

He fell silent again, lost in his own thoughts.

“Do you still miss him as much?”

“Always,” he said and turned to face me. “Sometimes so much I forget how to breathe.”

I nodded and looked down at the tags in my hand.

“Why have you kept so little of his things?”

He took my hand in his again and squeezed it.

“Because I already have the biggest part of him,” he said. “I have you.”

 

-//-

 

My father gave me life, my dad lived his for me. And while I never got to meet my father, he had been with every day since the day I was born – through me and through my dad’s love. Most people around me know my father is no longer with us, but what they don’t know is that he died protecting my dad.

‘Did you ever know him?’ they ask.

Yes.

Always.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Now, Sherlock's death. I've been asked a few times already why I chose not to include any details of how he died. The answer, simply, is that it doesn't matter. I tried to convey the general idea of how it happened, without any details, because the way he died is not entirely relevant to the story.
> 
> The more I think about it the more I need to write the prequel.


End file.
